


Shades of Black

by Sjoeks



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, Child Abuse, Death Eaters, Domestic Violence, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Family Drama, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, POV Sirius Black, Physical Abuse, Psychological Drama, Pureblood Politics, Running Away, Sirius Needs a Hug, Teenage Rebellion, Violence, first wizarding war, hurt sirius, sirius runs away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 18:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4447424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sjoeks/pseuds/Sjoeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Walburga's birthday party ends in violence, Sirius has had enough.<br/>A look into the dysfunctional mess that is the Black family. Rated for language and violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shades of Black

** Shades of Black **

He wished he were anywhere but here.

Voices travelled up the stairs and into Sirius Black’s bedroom. He didn’t know how many guests had arrived already, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d be forced to go downstairs to meet them. His cousins, and aunts, and uncles. His grandmother, who liked to pinch his cheek just a little too hard, wondering out loud what she’d done to end up with a bloodtraitor grandson like him. The whole damn family.

James’s latest letter was on his desk, creased around the edges from rereading it so many times. The black ink was smudged in some places, which made the already messy scrawl harder to decipher. But that was okay. He’d read the letter so many times these last few days that he could recite it.

Sirius smiled, picked up the letter yet again. His finger trailed over the words, imagining his messy-haired friend sitting at his desk, scribbling away furiously while munching on biscuits, the radio blasting some idiotic song that he’d sing along. A sudden explosion of laughter burst through the parquet and he flinched, accidently crumpling the parchment in his hand as he balled his fist. Merlin, he wished he were anywhere but here.

He wouldn’t even be here right now if it weren’t for his mother’s stupid birthday. The event of the goddamn year, were the whole bloody family would gather around the table and eat food he didn’t like while discussing topics he didn’t like. Everyone had been preparing for days. Weeks even.

52 years old. Hoozay, hoozay. Many years to come, etcetera, etcetera.

Moldy old hag.

He hadn’t been allowed to leave his room in a week, except to visit the loo. Kreacher would bring a tray of cold soup and stale bread to his room, so he wouldn’t have to eat with the rest of them. So they wouldn’t have to deal with him. When the rest of his family fell asleep, he’d sneak out of his confinement and out of the house. He’d smoke a cigarette on the porch or get a few drinks at the pub, where he’d flirt with the muggle girls who were too old for him. Sirius didn’t want to be in this house. His parents didn’t want him here either. But letting him go to his friends would mean defeat. It would mean allowing Sirius to actually have fun, while mingling with ‘that kind of people’. Bloodtraiters and mudbloods. _Them._

What they didn’t realize – or maybe they did, but chose to ignore it – was that he had been ‘one of them’ for a long time now. He hadn’t been ‘one of us’ in years; not since he’d been sorted in Gryffindor.

Go lions.

“Mother wants you downstairs.”

Sirius didn’t immediately turn around when Regulus spoke, his brother’s soft voice always grating on his nerves. The good son. The favorite. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He should ventilate his room.

“I said -”

“I heard you the first time,” Sirius snapped. Behind his back, he could hear Regulus shuffle on his feet, as if mother hadn’t allowed him to come back downstairs without bringing Sirius along. There was no way he was going to be allowed to stay up here. There were people to greet, appearances to be upheld.

He laid James’s letter back on his desk, trying to rub the wrinkles out of it, buying time. He gave up with a sigh, took another deep breath, and turned to follow his brother. His limbs felt stiff as they strode down the stairs and into the sitting room. A dozen faces turned towards him as he entered. He glared at them, their eyes following him hungrily as he leaned against the bookcase, refusing to sit down.

“Sirius,” mother’s voice was sharp, her lips pressed in a thin smile as she rested her cold eyes upon her son. He could see the hatred in them.

“Mother,” he replied haughtily, flicking his hair out of his face. His mouth twitched upwards as he watched her narrow her eyes, clenching her fists. Her chest expanded as she breathed in deeply. Surely she didn’t find his hair too long? Surely she didn’t hate it when he ran his long fingers through it?

Surely she did.

His father cleared his throat, breaking the tension in the room, “The table has been set. Perhaps we should move towards the dining room.”

His mother abruptly broke eye contact with him as she pushed herself out of the old leather fauteuil and refused to look at him again as the company moved towards the dining room. The walnut parquet was covered in a thick, dark green, hand woven carpet. The long dining table had been set for seventeen guests: his father and mother shared the head of the table, with Regulus on his mother’s left and Sirius on his father’s right. The air was thick in here, smelling of dust and wood and whatever feast Kreacher had prepared for dinner.

It was fish.

“So, Sirius,” Narcissa asked politely, striking up a conversation as Kreacher filled their plates. He couldn’t properly see her from where he was seated, unless he leaned forward and his grandparents and Aunt Lucretia and Uncled Ignatius would lean backwards. Like her mother’s, her hair was blonde and long, pinned up against her head to show off the laced back of her dress. She’d lost weight, he noticed, and she looked paler than he remembered, “I heard you finished your O.W.L.s. Were your grades satisfactory?”

All eyes turned towards him, and he tried not to grimace as he took the smallest of bites of his salmon appetizer. He could see the warning look in his mother’s eyes, as if she dared him to spit out the food or give the wrong answer to Narcissa’s question.

“Sure,” he choked out, swallowing the salmon with difficulty, “I got an Outstanding on Muggle Studies.”

“ _Muggle Studies_?” sneered Bellatrix, her dark curls falling into her face. Unfortunately, he could he see _her_ perfectly. Her eyes blazed under their heavy lids and her nostrils quivered with indignation, “A Black does not take up a subject such as _Muggle Studies_.”

“Oh, but I did,” Sirius smiled at her, his toes curling in their shoes at his mother’s sharp intake of breath, “Very interesting, indeed. Did you know muggles have these wonderful machines, called phellytones? They can talk to every other muggle through them, wherever they are. They run on _electricity_.”

“Oh, dear,” his grandmother sighed across from him, shaking her head, “Walburga, where have you gone wrong with that boy? Regulus has turned out just fine, but _him_ …”

“I reckon you didn’t hit him enough as a child,” Aunt Lucretia lisped, “A respectable wizard shouldn’t be thinking about muggles and their silly inventions. They are not at the same level of existence as us. It is as if you’d be discussing the thoughts of flobberworms. They interest no one, but the flobberworms themselves.”

“Surely you’ve also learned something else?” Narcissa asked louder than strictly necessary, giving him the opportunity to give the correct answer. Next to her, her husband laid his hand on her arm.

“Sure,” Sirius stared straight into his mother’s twitching eye, “The UK won the Eurovision Song Contest last year. And the muggles have a Queen – Queen Elizabeth, surely you know _that_ – and this year actually marks her silver jubilee. That’s why-”

“Enough with your bloody muggles!” his mother shrieked, slamming her hand on the table. The silverware tinkled and he jumped, heaving a shaky breath. His face stretched into the broadest smile he could muster, while his knuckles turned white around his fork, “I don’t want to hear another _word_ from you.”

“A fine son you have, brother,” aunt Lucretia’s thin lips curled upwards, “So invested in the affairs of muggles. One would think he rather likes them.”

“Sirius also received an Outstanding for Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration and Charms,” his father’s cold voice announced, as he clutched his son’s arm hard enough to bruise, “So, though he is not… all we hoped for… he is not a _total_ disgrace. At least his grades are decent, though his behavior may not be.”

Sirius snatched his arm back with force, and denied his parents the satisfaction of rubbing it to sooth the sting. Other parents would have been proud, had they been presented with the grades Sirius had gotten. They would have thrown him a party, bought him a dozen presents. A new broom perhaps. Or maybe a new cloak in colors _he_ liked. But not Orion and Walburga Black. To them, his grades made him ‘at least not a total disgrace’.

But that was cool. It wasn’t like he _cared_ what _they_ thought of him.

“I can hardly believe they teach a subject such as that to these young, impressionable minds,” his grandfather said next to him, “It can only give them the wrong ideas.”

“It’s that muggle-loving fool, Dumbledore,” Rodolphus spat, “he’s ruined the school.”

“Dumbledore is no fool,” Sirius could feel the heat rise to his cheeks, “And he’s done nothing but good for the school.”

“Hold your tongue, you foolish boy,” his mother slapped her fork on his hand, the teeth biting into his flesh with a sharp sting. He hissed.

“Dumbledore _is_ ruining Hogwarts,” Bellatrix agreed with her husband, “allowing all kinds of scum to enter. There’s more mudbloods than purebloods attending. It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is. They should banish the mudbloods. They poison the minds of the young, proper wizards and witches. They believe they are our _equals._ ”

“They are.” Sirius hissed through clenched teeth.

Bellatrix’s scornful laughter echoed against the wainscoting, quickly joined by the scoffing of the rest of his family. His blush deepened as his heart rate sped up.

“Equal?” she shrieked, “To us?”

“Why would they not be?” Sirius rose from his seat, waving his fork at his cousin as he raised his voice, “They are just. Like. Us. They’re wizards and witches, with talent and skill. The magic in their veins is no different from the magic in ours. They were born with it, though they may not have realized it at first.”

“Lies!” Bellatrix had risen from her seat as well, and like himself, she’d gotten red in the face, “The magic in them _is_ different from ours! It’s tainted! Their blood is unpure, and dirty!”

“Woman,” he spat, “It is blood! There’s no such thing as dirty blood! There’s no goddamn mud running through their veins. It’s red, like yours, like mine. Their blood is the same, their magic is the same. They. Are. Our. Equals.”

“How dare you,” saliva sprayed from between her spluttering lips, “How dare you disrespect your ancestors like that?!”

“I don’t give a damn about my ancestors!”

A fist connected painfully with his mouth, cutting off the rest he’d wanted to say. He stumbled backwards and fell, wincing as his lower back hit the woodwork. His father was towering over him, leaning his fists on the table. Sirius brought his trembling fingers to his aching mouth, and was not surprised to see blood on them.

“You don’t disrespect your family like that, son,” unlike his mother, his father never raised his voice, “Now sit down in your chair, and finish your dinner in silence. It is your mother’s birthday. Behave accordingly.”

He spat the blood onto the floor, hoping to get a rise out of his father. Though his mother hissed menacingly, no other reaction came. His chair was heavy as he slid it back underneath the table. Regulus winced when they made eye-contact. Aunt Druella was fussing over Bellatrix, calming her daughter down in a hushed whisper. A cruel sneer was plastered on Bellatrix’s face as she looked at her cousin.

“It is not _us_ being hunted out there.”

Sirius would have jumped over the table and strangled her with his bare hands, while repeatedly stabbing her in the throat if it weren’t for his father’s strong grip on his biceps. He panted harshly through his nose, unable to draw in a full breath as he struggled against his father’s grip.

“It should be,” he whispered, “And one day, it will be.”

Pain shot through his arm and shoulder as his father twisted it. For a moment, he was certain he was going to snap it in two. He could already imagine the dry snapping of the bone, the excruciating pain that would follow. Next to her, her mother placed her hand over Bellatrix’s arm with a soft shake of her head.

“He’s not worth it, Darling.”

Once, he had been the Black prince, destined to take the throne once he’d come off age. The other family members had looked up to him, expecting greatness. Now, he was simply not worth it. The bitter disappointment poisoned the air like mustard-gas. Another thing he’d learned about in Muggle Studies.

He averted his eyes, looked down into his plate. The disappointment was mutual.

He’d long know which side they were on, even before there was the question of choosing. It was only with growing up that he’d realized exactly how wrong their path was; evil and dangerous. And they had been readying him for his own journey following their road. Everything would have been different, were it not for a decision a stupid hat had made 6 years ago.

He could have still been the perfect little prince. The one they all adored. The one they had such high hopes for. He could have had it all.

And it would have left him with nothing.

“Sirius,” his mother’s voice sounded like a sharp slap to the face, raising the hairs on his arms. He swallowed, “Finish your salmon. Then I want you gone from this dinner table.”

“Don’t worry, Aunt Walburga,” Bellatrix had calmed down again to the point where she could smile sweetly at his mother, “He will soon see how wrong he is. The Dark Lord will cleanse this world. He is still young, still naïve. When he leaves the safety of Hogwarts, and he’ll be faced with real choices, with real consequences, maybe then he’ll choose right. The Dark Lord will forgive him. He will welcome him. He comes of pure blood, of a sacred line.”

He shoved a fork full of salmon in his mouth and gagged, swallowing it quickly before he’d spit it back on his plate. Saliva pooled under his tongue and his eyes watered. He could feel his family’s eyes on him as he chewed noisily, just wanting this meal to be over so he could go back to the safe confinements of his own room.

He would never choose their path.

He was still choking on his last bite when his mother pointedly cleared her throat, her eyes shifting to the door, her mouth a thin line. She suddenly seemed old, like he hadn’t looked at her in years and only now laid eyes on her again. Thin lines had appeared around her eyes without him realizing, and her hair was definitely graying at the roots.

He wished he could scrape his chair loudly over her precious walnut parquet, but the thick carpet prevented him from doing so. Nothing stopped him from slamming the door shut behind him, though.

He wasn’t welcome there. The little family moment of sharing a meal together and celebrating a birthday was not something he was to be included in. Sirius wasn’t worthy. He should have brought up Andromeda. That would have given a fun reaction. He could already hear Bellatrix shrieking ‘She is no sister of mine!’ while Aunt Druella and Uncle Cygnus would avert their eyes, tense, with their lips pressed together.

“A disgrace,” he whispered as he mounted the stairs, and slid to the floor with his back pressed against the warm door He pressed his knees to his ears, folded his hand over the back of his head, “We are a disgrace. But at least we’re not like them.”

He could hear them downstairs. The muffled ‘happy birthday’s’. The smell of the main course that came wafting up the stairs, twisting his stomach into knots. Kreacher in the kitchen, banging the pots and the dishes.

“I don’t want to be like them,” he moaned, his limbs trembling like a violin snare rigged too tightly. His left arm was sore and his split lip stung.

Only ten more days. Then he’d be back at Hogwarts, and he wouldn’t have to see them for ten months. Maybe he could leave sooner. Spend the rest of his holiday at James’s. His parents were sick and tired of having him around, surely they would appreciate it if he left a little sooner. If he packed tonight, he could leave tomorrow morning. Be done with his family until next July.

He needed to move, to do something.

He jumped up and dragged his trunk on top of his bed, coughing as dust filled his mouth upon opening it. He would need his uniform. And socks. Clean underwear. He still had to buy his school books, but he could already pack his parchment and some quills. The book on Quidditch Remus had given him for his birthday last year. His broom would have to be packed, of course, and while he was at it, where in Merlin’s name was his personalized bat?

It was on top of his motorcycle magazines on the bottom of his wardrobe.

“It was lovely seeing you again, Walburga,” Aunt Lucretia’s voice drifted through the cleft underneath his door. He looked up, his arms filled with white shirts. He frowned. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed and was surprised to see the sun setting, bathing his room in Gryffindor red, “Dinner was lovely. Except for- well, you know.”

Except for your son interrupting it with his revolutionary ideas.

His mother answered something, her voice not carrying all the way into Sirius’s room. At last, the door closed behind them, and a quiet fell over the house that made it difficult to breathe.

He snapped his trunk shut, securing the straps before settling on his bed, trying to listen to what his family was doing. His stomach gurgled and he laid his hand on it. He’d have to nick some food after they’d gone to bed. He froze as he heard footsteps on the stairs. They were too quiet to be his parents’, yet too loud to be Kreacher’s. Regulus.

“Mother wants you downstairs.”

He followed the dutiful little messenger down the stairs and into the sitting room, where his brother announced their arrival to their parents. Empty china cups were littered over the coffee table, the dark liquid clinging to its sides. His parents stood side by side, their looks unamused.

“Regulus, go upstairs,” his father said. Sirius didn’t look at the younger Black, but he could sense his hesitation. As if he wanted to stay and watch his punishment, “Now, Regulus.”

With a soft sigh, Regulus turned around, accidently brushing against Sirius’s smarting arm as he left the sitting room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

“You arrogant little shit,” his mother started, stalking toward him, poking her sharp nail in his chest, “How dare you– how dare you? Disrespecting your family like that! _Embarrassing_ us like that!”

She was faster than he was, clawed her hand into his hair and pulled his head in an awkward angle, “How dare you- in my own house!”

“I spoke nothing but the truth,” Sirius grunted, which earned him a harsh yank.

“You disgust me!” his mother shrieked, shaking her son by his hair, “You pathetic, disgusting, filthy bloodtraitor!”

“Apologize to your mother for upsetting her,” a quiet threat was made in those words. _Or else…_

“I will not apologize for being right,” Sirius spat. His mother screamed in rage, dragging him across the room. He struggled, trying to wrench her fingers out of his hair, but her grip was like a troll’s.

“Do we mean nothing to you?” she panted, “Your own family– you were our pride. And now– you’ve ruined everything! You respect no one. You don’t even respect yourself. And what for, Sirius? What for? For ideals? For _fun_?”

She slammed his head against the wall. His ears rung and the world blurred around the edges. She pushed him away and he fell to the floor, crawling away from her. Sparks flew as she drew her wand. His hands started trembling. His mouth felt like sand paper.

“I can’t even look at you!” she gurgled and spat on him, saliva landing on his chest.

“Well,” he breathed, sounding braver than he felt, “The feeling is mutual.”

Her eyes bulged and she rolled her head on her neck, “Bloodtraitor! Scum! Filth! _Crucio!_ ”

And there it was, the curse he’d been waiting for. Pain coursed through his veins. _Make it stop. Make it stop!_ His muscles overstrained, his back curving and his head thumping against the floor again, and again, and again. He thought he screamed, but he couldn’t be certain. Maybe he’d swallowed his tongue altogether.

And then the curse was lifted and he could breathe again. Rasping, raging gasps, the fingers of his right hand still twitching. He coughed and choked as he breathed too fast. The floor was hard underneath his cheek as he lay trembling. His mother kneeled next to him and she was all he could see. He choked back a sob as he looked at this cold, heartless woman staring down at him.

“Oh, Sirius,” she sighed, “Why could you not be more like Regulus? What have we ever done to you to make you act so horrible to us?”

“This,” he rasped, his dry throat screaming, “You’ve done… this.”

“For your own good,” his mother reached out to him. He flinched as the cold flesh of her fingers caressed his cheek, “Why won’t you let us love you?”

He thought he was going to be sick.

Her fingers stroke his trembling jaw, brushed through his sweaty hair, “Why won’t you let us love you? Why won’t you be good?”

“Because,” he rasped, “you are wrong.”

She screamed in rage, the sound of it cutting through him like nails on a chalkboard.

“It is them Gryffindor bloodtraitors!” she accused, “They messed with your head! They _destroyed_ you! You were perfect, Sirius, perfect!”

“I never was,” he pushed himself into a sitting position and looked her in the eye, “You don’t know me.”

“I know you better than anyone else,” she rose to her feet, towering over him, “I gave birth to you. You are my flesh and blood. Even if you don’t want to admit it.”

“I don’t!” his scream bordered on a sob, “Because I’m not! I am nothing like you! And I never will be!”

She bent over and slapped him again, screeching: “You disgust me!” over and over, until it filled his ears and his head and his whole being.

“Well, good!” he hollered, “Like I give a flying, sodding _fuck_ about what you think of me!”

“I gave you food and shelter and a home!” her foot connected with his ribs, and he definitely felt one crack, “I gave you _everything!_ ”

“Well,” he panted, “You don’t have to anymore.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she froze, stared at him with narrowing eyes.

“I’m leaving.”

The silence that fell rung in his ears, the loud tack-tack-tack of the grandfather clock indicating how many seconds their parents needed to process his words. His mother’s face drained of all color, her hellish eyes growing in size as she panted through flaring nostrils.

“No, you’re not,” his mother’s voice was too calm, raising the hairs on his arms.

“You can’t stop me,” he couldn’t keep the tremor out of his voice as he used her leather fauteuil to pull himself to his feet. His cracked rib screamed and he hunched over, momentarily staggering as his vision swam.

“Sit down, boy,” his mother’s hand was trembling as she pointed her wand at him. He shook his head.

“I said: sit. Down!”

“I. Said. No.”

The curse knocked him off his feet and back onto the hard floor. All air gushed out of his lungs. He struggled to move, could barely even lift his head off the floor. The power behind her curse was tremendous. He broke in a sweat as he strained his taut muscles, pain searing through him as he wrestled with his mother’s spell, tried to get back on his feet. The trembling of her hand grew worse as he resisted harder, and a bead of sweat rolled over her pale face. She gritted her teeth and he could feel the force of her curse growing slightly, the air pressing him down harder, as if an Erumptent was sitting on his torso. His mother’s bloodless lips pulled into a grin as he faltered.

She was never going to let him leave.

The empty tea cups all exploded with a high-pitched shattering noise. His mother’s concentration faltered for a second as shards of china sprayed over the coffee table and the pressure on his body eased enough for Sirius to struggle to his feet. He couldn’t breathe. His hair clung to his face, slick with sweat and he could barely see as he knocked his mother over, completely breaking the curse.

“Come back here!” she screamed as he tore open the door and stumbled into the hallway. His whole body hurt. His knees were trembling as if someone had casted a jelly-legs jinx on him. He’d only climbed a few stairs when he tripped and fell, splitting his chin on the sharp edge of the step. He screamed breathlessly as his mother’s bony fingers closed around his ankle, pulling him back down the stairs. He lashed out blindly, kicking and screaming.

“Let go of me!”

He foot connected with something solid and his mother released his ankle with a grunt. He scurried up the stairs, the sound of his mother’s heels right behind him. His heart was beating so fast it hurt. Sharp bursts of air scraped over his dry tongue as he panicked.

“You scum of the earth! Worthless piece of muggle-loving shit! Get back here! Get back here, right now!”

A jet of light missed him by an inch, shattering the bust of Phineas Nigellus. He yelped and threw his quivering hands up to protect his face from flying shards of marble. His arm stung when it got nicked.

He dove into his room and slammed the door shut. His packed suitcase was lying on his bed, waiting for him. His mother blasted his door off its hinges. Her skinny silhouette filled its frame, her face hidden in shadows.

“Don’t. Move,” she warned. He grabbed his wand off his bedside table and pointed it at the woman he called mother.

“Not this time.”

“What are you going to do, Sirius?” she mocked, “An underage runaway. No home, no family, not a knut to your name. You will soon be back- begging us…”

He shook his head furiously, “Never. I’m never coming back.”

“You’re not _leaving_ ,” her hand tightened around her wand and he mimicked her movement, “I have given you _everything_. Why do you struggle so? Why won’t you do as you are told? You could have been a king…”

She’d approached him slowly – as you would a caged animal – until she was close enough to caress his cheeks with her bony fingers. He shuddered.

“King of what?” he spat, pulling away from her cold touch. Her hand balled into a fist. He readied himself for her punch, forced himself not to break eye contact.

Instead, she turned sharply on her heels and stalked away from him.

“Orion,” she called, “Our son has died. Years ago. I was blind, but now I can see. I have but one child.”

Over the sound of his rasping gasps, he could hear her moving away. He didn’t understand. She let him go? This was it? His heart thudded in his ears and he felt dizzy, a little sick even. He felt like an actor who’d walked into the wrong play. These weren’t her lines. She was supposed to stop him. Where was she going?

He collapsed on his bed, his limbs shaking. Everything hurt. The coppery taste of blood lingered on his tongue. He couldn’t hear her anymore. She had left him. He was dead.

He was exhausted.

Somewhere deep inside the house, his mother started screaming hysterically. Time seemed to slow down.

“You should probably leave,” Regulus sounded far away, though when he rolled his head towards him, he could see the kid was standing in his doorframe. Without his door in it. Because his mother had blasted it out. Good Godric.

“She’s blasted you off the tapestry,” Regulus was so pale, “You need to leave. If you’re still here when she’s calmed down…”

Both boys shuddered. He had to leave. His parents would kill him if they found him still in their house. No one would stop them. Regulus was their little prince now. The perfect little Black heir.

“Sirius…” he hadn’t realized his brother had entered his room until he was manhandling him to his feet, looking at him with a grimace. He touched the cut on Sirius’s chin and he flinched, trying to push his younger brother away. Regulus sighed and disappeared for a moment. He lost track of time again until a cold, wet cloth was pressed against his bleeding face.

“Leave me alone,” Sirius complained. He pushed against his brother’s chest and his own rib seared in pain. He groaned.

“Are you hurt?” Regulus moved the cloth to his neck over his chin and mouth and wiped away the blood that had trickled down.

“I’m fine,” he grunted. Regulus sighed. He threw the washcloth on his brother’s bed and whipped his wand out of his robes, casting a floating spell on his trunk. He hurried down the stairs with Sirius’s trunk floating in front of him. Sirius followed slower, clutching the rail and wincing with each step. His parents were still shouting at each other.

Though the air wasn’t much cooler outside, it did help clear his head. He looked back at the house he’d grown up in. The dark bricks stared back at him, light spilling out of the front door and onto the pavement. He was never coming back.

“Do you have a place where you can stay?”

He looked at his brother and barely recognized him. The boy was becoming a man. Pale as a ghost as he went against their parents’ wishes by helping his brother. Never before had Sirius felt such a strong connection with his brother, and never again would he. His brother had chosen a different path. A path that would only cross his again in battle.

“Come with me,” he offered, but he knew Regulus’s answer before the words had left his mouth.

“I can’t,” he whispered. Sirius nodded. He stuck his wand hand into the air, hailing the Knight Bus.

“Goodbye, Regulus.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out.  
> If you liked this story, you may also like my story 'Talk', which is in the same style as this one.


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